


we are all going forward (none of us are going back)

by thatfangirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatfangirl/pseuds/thatfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The damage to Grand Central had the subway all gunked up, but Steve would have walked anyway: it was good to see the city intact, maybe a little subdued even for early on a Sunday, but unquestionably alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are all going forward (none of us are going back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellid (Ellidfics)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/gifts).



> Title from "Snow and Dirty Rain" by Richard Siken. Partly inspired by [this photograph](http://glaukopis.tumblr.com/post/90749183363/ellidfics-gabrielrobertflores-and-we-all).

The lobby of SHIELD's New York headquarters was quiet. It wasn't empty, but it was the closest to empty that Steve had seen it, and his freshly polished shoes sounded loud beneath the high ceiling. Outside, there was only a little broken glass; Stark had done a good job of maintaining the perimeter around Loki's portal. The damage to Grand Central had the subway all gunked up, but Steve would have walked anyway: it was good to see the city intact, maybe a little subdued even for early on a Sunday, but unquestionably alive.

The spectacular lights and advertisements gradually diminished as Steve made his way down Broadway. He cut through Union Square, where trees filtered the frustrated stop-start of traffic. When he emerged from the park, the edifice that confronted him was weird even by New York standards: steam billowed from the origin of concentric circles, as though someone had heaved a hot rock into a lake. Through the steam, lights flashed a series of shifting numbers, the center digit reduced to a blur.

Steve stared, trying to decode what was being tallied. Then he realized: it was the time, the hours elapsed and the hours remaining in the day, the numbers moving up and down like sand switching sides in an hourglass. Public art in the twenty-first century had come a long way from the murals he had worked on for the WPA, but he kind of liked it.

On Bowery, trucks and buses rumbled past fancy apartments instead of flophouses, which was strange but good, Steve guessed. The Manhattan Bridge appeared like a Roman ruin, double rows of columns leading to the triumphal arch over the entrance. Bucky had always called it high-falutin', so maybe he would have found common cause with whoever had scribbled graffiti on the colonnade.

Steve had grown up on the far side of the river, between the crackling hum of the power station and the unceasing activity of the Navy Yard. From the bridge, he could see the ugly concrete expressway that had cut his old neighborhood in half. The foundation of the tenement he had lived in lay buried beneath six lanes.

Between the ramps to bridges and highways, Steve found the Cathedral of St. James, a narrow brick building with a white bell tower capped by a golden cross. Carefully, he pulled the large door shut behind him, choking off the noise of the city. Inside, roseate marble reflected morning sunlight made multicolored by stained glass.

Steve's relationship with God was informal, almost Protestant, but his mother had been a devout Catholic, so he had kept on attending mass after she had passed. He had been in St. James the morning of Pearl Harbor, unaware that in a few short hours his whole life would change, or at least it had felt that way with everyone gathered around the radio white-faced. His life hadn't really changed until the summer of 1942, when he had been reborn, and then the next November, when he had left the chorus line for the Commandos, and then that morning a month ago, when he had woken up in the future.

Steve slipped a folded bill into a padlocked donations box and lit a candle for the civilians they hadn't been able to save. He lit one for the agents that had died defending the helicarrier, and then another just for Agent Coulson. He lit candles for his parents, for Bucky, for each of the Commandos, a whole row of flames. Guiltily, he donated another dollar and joined a pew near the back. He tried to pray, but the soothing cadence of the Lord's Prayer kept sticking on "as we forgive those who trespass against us."

The organ sounded and everyone pushed to their feet. The priest venerated the altar, then turned to face the congregation. When he spoke, it was in English.

Strange, Steve thought faintly, but good.


End file.
